48 Hours

Coombes fell silent and the Assistant Commissioner took over. “So, as you can see, Mr Hammond, in view of the circumstantial evidence we have, which is now rather substantial, and because of previous good results on other cases, we have a good chance of obtaining a warrant.”

He had barely got the words out when there was a knock at the door. An out of breath young police officer was beckoned into the room and was eager to present something to the gathering.

“Sir, I have some news on the mugger. It’s rather unexpected.”

“All right, Constable, let’s hear it.”

The young man stood next to the Assistant Commissioner and read out his findings, which were indeed rather surprising. Or perhaps not.

“Ms Conrad; gentlemen. As you know, the man apprehended has denied any involvement in the mugging, pointing out that he was not in possession of any stolen goods when apprehended.

He’s been calm and cooperative the whole time, and when asked whether he wanted representation he said he was happy to talk to us without a lawyer present, as he had done nothing wrong. However, he asked if he could seek advice from his employers.

He was allowed the phone call and he rang an Isleworth number. We later identified the company as the Distressed Media Group, who are the registered owners of the car.

The driver, Gordon James Coppull, who has no criminal record whatsoever, freely explained that he was a record producer for the said company and that he had a personal fortune of over two million pounds. We checked him out on the internet and before he went into business he was lead guitarist for The Regular Enemas, a popular grunge band from the 1990s.

As he had no history of criminality in his first thirty five years, and as he appeared to be as wealthy as he claimed, we more or less ruled him out of the mugging, until I received this back from Companies House.”

The young man lifted a single page company search and read from it.

“Distressed Media Group is a PLC, formed in 1987. Directors are listed as Gordon J Coppull, Dirk Millman, Joseph Pettleman, Michael Dixon and the Managing Director is....” The young man paused for effect, holding the name back as if he was a

“Donald Grainger Fisher, former lead singer of ‘London’s Burning’ and founder of Rock Relief.”

The young policeman received the reaction he must surely have expected. Every jaw in the room dropped.

Chapter 48

No. 2 Parliament St, London. Thursday, 2pm.

It was his third glass of the Chief Whip’s Armagnac and the forty percent alcohol content was calming Lord Hickstead’s nerves. He stared at the colourful liquid swilling around in the balloon glass, marvelling at the French talent for producing the world’s best wine and then producing the world’s best brandy from that wine. The oddly shaped bottle looked as though it should contain Olive Oil or salad dressing. It had a long neck, bulbous body and it was flat front and back. The label was old fashioned and appeared to be deliberately designed to appear aged. It read Clés des Ducs, with three stars under the name. As with other types of brandy, it had been given the appendage VSOP as it was a five year old Armagnac and, luckily, it was his favourite tipple.

Despite the mild alcoholic haze in his brain, his mind kept coming back to the disastrous day that was only half over. It had all seemed so simple in the depository. Go to Trafalgar Square, hand over the diamonds to Van Aart’s man and drop the photos in the post to the anonymous ‘Dr Crippin’ who published the notorious Celebrity Leaks web site. He would have posted the Polaroids to one of the newspapers, but there was only one out of the batch of ten that could be considered suitable for publication by any newspaper, no matter how broad minded the readership. Still, by this time tomorrow the pictures would probably have appeared on a thousand web sites and blog pages around the world, especially considering the alleged celebrity of the subject.

He still couldn’t believe that he had been mugged. The police seemed to think that the mugger had waited outside the depository, evidently reckoning that there was a good chance that anyone leaving the premises would be carrying some valuables. The police had a suspect, but no briefcase. That was just as well. How could he possibly have explained carrying a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds? The only provenance or receipt he had which showed they had not been stolen would lead straight back to Abasi Nour.

That was another disaster. He had convinced the police that he had lost nothing of value, and they hadn’t recovered the briefcase, so he thought he was in the clear. Then he saw Nour and De Montagu in the police station. Presumably they were sitting there waiting to talk to a detective about the blackmailer who used them to launder his money.

He thought that he had seen a glimmer of recognition in Nour’s face when they had made eye contact, but he had convinced himself that he was over-reacting. In any event, who would believe that a Peer of the Realm would blackmail random individuals in the City? Nonetheless, the Egyptian had shown himself to be borderline criminal, and so Arthur would have to wait and see what happened next. His guess was that he would receive a call from Mr Nour and a request for his diamonds back. But the diamonds were gone, and Nour certainly wasn’t the person he would have given them to, anyway. The Peer had already received polite but vaguely threatening calls from Van Aart demanding immediate delivery of the diamonds or his money back. The Dutch criminal also noted that if he did not receive the diamonds he would add an extra one hundred thousand Euros to the bill as compensation for lost profit.

Not a good day, on the whole. Almost a third of a million pounds down, failure to humiliate that scumbag pop singer in Isleworth, and now a very real possibility that he might have to deal with Mr Nour.

Another glass of golden brown Clés des Ducs Armagnac slid down his throat.

Chapter 49

New Scotland Yard, London. Thursday, 4pm.

I was back in the conference room with Inspector Boniface, DS Fellowes and Dee. We had been summoned back by the Assistant Commissioner’s secretary, having enjoyed a leisurely lunch in the canteen. The canteen food proved to be much better than I had been expecting. The roast lamb was moist, the roast potatoes crispy brown on the outside and white and fluffy on the inside, and the vegetables weren’t overcooked, having the perfect degree of bite to them. The Metropolitan Police eat well, especially at those prices. I suspected that if Dyson Brecht had such a canteen we would all be much heavier than we are. Many of us are lazy thin; we simply can’t be bothered to make the journey to buy food, either the healthy or junk varieties.

As soon as we were told that Don Fisher had been implicated in the mugging the Assistant Commissioner had blown his top and ordered DCI Coombes to “find him and drag him in, if necessary”. No such action was necessary, however, as Fisher was already on his way to Scotland Yard to get his friend Gordon out of trouble.

DS Scott came in with Don Fisher and a churlish looking man whom I took to be Gordon James Coppull. They were followed a moment later by a man who was obviously a lawyer. He was carrying a green Harrods bag.

Introductions were affected, and then we sat down to await AC Evans. When he arrived he looked at Fisher and failed to completely mask his anger. Fisher had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Mr Fisher, you seem to have completely ruined a complex international surveillance operation, stolen a briefcase from a good friend of the Home Secretary, and put a suspect on notice that he is under investigation. Well done, and all in a single day.”